


Let Them Call It Mischief

by infiniteeight



Series: Hawk!Clint [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, Get Together, M/M, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony runs his mouth, Loki takes it as inspiration, and suddenly the Avengers are a little less human than they used to be. Some of them take it better than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal, endless thanks to Perpetual Motion for a couple of amazing rounds of beta reading. It went from being almost a throwaway story to something more. And from being 7,000 words to 16,000...

_Let them call it mischief: When it is past and prospered t'will be virtue. ~ Ben Jonson_

When Phil emerges from the communications blackout necessary for his current mission, there are dozens of messages waiting for him. This is normal, except that one of them is marked _A1_. Once upon a time he got those messages for any high priority op that went balls up, but these days operational priorities have been adjusted and no one sends that kind of alert to _him_ unless something has gone wrong with the Avengers. He delegates the remainder of the op to his second in command and arranges a ride with the nearest military base. It isn't an American base, but they listen to reason. He's very good at being reasonable.

He reads the message en route. Fury prefers it when Phil arrives prepared, but there isn’t much detail in the message itself, which means Fury didn't want to risk the information even on secure channels. All Phil knows when the jet lands on the Helicarrier is that thirty-two hours ago there was an encounter with Loki, the ever-present pain in the ass was not secured, and all of the Avengers are alive. The use of that word--alive--in particular, winds Phil's shoulders into knots.

Hill is waiting when he climbs out of the jet. She falls into step beside him as he heads off the deck at a brisk pace. "They're in quarantine," she begins. "Except for Thor, who has been determined to be immune, but he's staying close." Technically, she should have started at the beginning, but Phil doesn't correct her. She knew he needed to know where he was going. "Loki was sighted in San Francisco thirty-five hours ago. The Avengers were assembled and dispatched."

"Do we know what his target was?" Phil asks. His shoes echo on the metal deck of the Helicarrier halls, a sharp contrast to the quiet, rubber-soled boots of the tactical gear that most of the agents are wearing.

"Unconfirmed, but with a high degree of confidence, we believe it was a particle physics research lab," Hill says. "We've been monitoring them for some time, as their work shows a non-trivial similarity to the readings we got from Thor's hammer and the opening of the Biforst. Their readings aren’t as focused as Dr. Foster's, of course. The researchers are unharmed. There was damage to their experimental rig, which is being generously repaired by SHIELD in exchange for the usual considerations."

Phil nods his approval, but he can't help the way his steps quicken as they approach medical. _Quarantine_. He swallows the lump in his throat. "And the Avengers?"

"The Avengers engaged Loki and withdrew him to a less populated location," Hill continues. "The battle was proceeding favorably when Stark made one of his comments. I'm given to understand it was something along the lines of Loki feeling threatened by intelligence."

"I very much doubt Stark put it like that," Phil deadpans.

Hill's lips quirk. "No. Loki took offense. He said, and this is from Stark's recordings, 'You are hardly removed from mindless beasts. Shall we see how far removed?' There was a flash of light--" there's always a flash of light, Phil thinks wryly "--and all of the Avengers, excepting Thor, reported disorientation and momentary but intense pain. Thor reports that Loki vanished simultaneously with the flash."

Pain isn't enough for a quarantine. "What's developed in addition to the pain?" Phil asks. They're at medical, now. As he and Hill make their way to the quarantine area, the staff hurry out of their way. 

"The symptoms are...idiosyncratic," Hill says. Phil raises an eyebrow. She shakes her head. "Just see for yourself."

Thor is standing at the window that makes up one wall of the quarantine room, one arm folded across his chest, the fingers of the other hand resting on his chin. His brow is furrowed, but he doesn't seem as worried as Phil expected him to be. He greets Phil with a nod as Phil turns his gaze towards the team.

Captain America has a tail. Steve Rogers, rather, because he's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt rather than his costume. Someone has cut a hole in the seat of the pants for the tail, which is long and as blond as the hair on Steve's head. He's sitting on the bottom bunk of one of four sets of bunk beds, staring down at the tail. Every now and then it thumps the mattress, and Steve twitches, as if startled. On closer inspection, Phil can see that he's also sporting a very fine layer of golden fur and that his fingernails have darkened and thickened substantially. Other than that--and the odd way he keeps moving his mouth--he seems healthy.

Banner, on the other hand, looks deathly ill. There's some kind of growth on his forehead, and he's so gray that Phil wonders why he isn't in the ICU. Then Phil realizes that the color isn't due to blood loss, it's pigmentation. Banner’s skin is _literally_ gray. It seems to have developed a pronounced texture as well. His shoulders are slumped and he's chewing, slowly and steadily, on a power bar. He looks like you couldn't move him with a forklift.

Which is in sharp contrast to Stark, who is flitting around the room, picking up small objects and examining them intently before making irritated noises and discarding them. He circles back to one of the bunks regularly, where something is lying disassembled on the sheets. His hair is half feathers and his eyes are bright yellow. Phil frowns. "You let Stark have tech in this condition?" 

"He was agitating the others," Hill says. "We made sure not to give him a power source, and they're being monitored in case he tries to make something explosive. He was so disruptive he was even stirring up Romanov and Barton, and they've been almost normal. Giving him something to tinker with calmed him down."

Phil turns his attention to Natasha next, since she's sitting right up front. Given that she is off center of her bunk, but exactly opposite the middle of the observation window, he knows that the placement is deliberate. For a moment she looks unchanged. Then she meets his eyes and he can see the vertical slit pupils. She lifts a hand and gestures at the line of her neck and jaw, where closer inspection reveals scales. When he nods, she pushes back her upper lip and he sees fangs. Display done, she returns to her studied, casual pose.

Given what he's observed so far, Phil is both surprised and unsurprised at the changes in Clint. Unsurprising is the physical. His hair is as full of feathers as Stark's, though his are a light reddish brown. They go startlingly well with his dark blond hair. His eyes are still largely blue, but are ringed in bronze now, and the surface of his hands looks rough.

Surprising to Phil is Clint’s behavior. The others are all demonstrably upset, each in their own way. But Clint, sitting cross-legged on top of the tallest bunk in the room, is as relaxed as Phil has ever seen him. His wrists are resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely, and though his gaze is sharp as he surveys his teammates, his lips are curved up a little.

Despite all the unknowns that remain, Phil feels his shoulders unknot a little at the sight of that smile. He looks over at Thor. "What did Loki do?" Phil asks.

"I know the forms of Loki's magic," Thor says, voice tight and too loud, "but not the spells. I am sorry, Son of Coul, that I cannot tell you more of how our comrades have changed than you can see." Thor waves back at the team and Phil follows the gesture.

Clint looks up, spotting them. He uncrosses his legs, swings them over the side of the bunk, and drops easily to the floor. He's always been light on his feet, but now Phil swears it takes him a moment to realize Clint has actually touched down. He crosses the room in a couple of steps and leans his shoulder against his side of the glass, meeting Phil's gaze and smiling. "Come to spring us, sir?" he asks. "Because I swear, what we got ain't contagious."

The others--save Natasha--all look up then, noticing Phil for the first time and showing varying degrees of hope and embarrassment.

"That's not for you to judge," Phil says. "I need a report from the doctor." He holds Clint's gaze for a long moment, looking for tension. "How do you feel, Agent Barton?"

Clint shrugs one shoulder. "Good."

"I could use a little more detail," Phil says dryly. He doesn't break eye contact. Clint's gaze is piercing, but it always has been. The ring of bronze doesn't change that.

"My vision is better," Clint offers. Phil's eyebrows go up; Clint's vision was spectacularly good to begin with. Clint nods to show he’s thinking the same thing. "I can see farther, in more detail. When something's moving fast, I can see it clearer than before." He lifts a hand and puts it against the glass. There's a shine to the subtle scaly texture that covers his fingers and grows thinner towards his elbows. "My grip strength has increased, and the skin on my hands is tougher. I think I could do without a shooting glove or arm guard, if I wanted."

"Loss of sensitivity?" Phil asks.

"Not that I've noticed. The doctors ran all sorts of tests; they'll tell you more."

"But you feel good?" Phil tilts his head. Clint has always been particular about anyone messing with his hands, arms, and eyes. All three of those are showing changes, but he feels good?

Clint nods. "Especially when I'm up high. I kind of wish the Helicarrier had more windows." Behind Clint, Bruce shudders. "And I gotta tell you, I am craving red meat like nobody's business."

"Have you eaten?" Depending on the doctors' concerns, they might not have wanted to risk food unless absolutely necessary. The Avengers have gone a day or two without eating before, not even always on a mission in the case of Stark and Banner and the way they work until they drop.

Clint nods. "Yeah. Just. Pasta and chicken and salad and shit."

"Not literally shit, I hope," Phil comments, mouth twitching.

Clint laughs, full out. Phil manages not to stare, but it's a near thing. Clint chuckles, he snickers, but he doesn't often laugh like that. He calms after a moment, smiling at Phil. "Not literally, no. We'll be okay, sir. Go talk to the docs." He pushes off the glass window and returns to his bunk, boosting himself up onto the perch with a level of ease Phil _knows_ he didn't have before.

Phil sweeps one last glance over the team before turning away. Steve lets out a distinctly canine whine and promptly goes red. Phil quickly looks away--not that there is much dignity in quarantine at the moment--and sighs at the sight of Tony working on the toilet unit with a screwdriver. Hopefully he'll be able to get them out of there before Stark floods the place.

Hill nods at him and departs now that the situation has been handed over, but Thor walks with him to the infirmary. "I'd like you to comment on the 'forms of magic' you mentioned," Phil says, "but not until after I speak to the doctors."

"Very well," Thor agrees.

The lead physician doesn't seem to know how to start when Phil asks for the team’s status. Phil slides his hands into his pockets and makes himself smile a little. "We're setting new standards for strange every day, doctor," he says, and shrugs. "I doubt your report is going to sound any more unusual than 'it was magic,'" Phil goes on, nodding at Thor, who smiles and tilts his head in concession.

The doctor lets out a breath and a hint of a laugh. "I'm beginning to understand why 'may you live in interesting times,' is a curse," he says, and lauches into his summary. It's obviously a little rehearsed, but Phil doubts the doctor is the only one who has spent a time or two in front of the mirror repeating themselves until they sound less crazy

The Avengers have, it seems, each acquired animal characteristics. Bruce has taken on the features of a rhinoceros. Natasha is showing snakelike traits. Steve is a dog, a golden retriever if the color of the tail isn't just based on his hair. Tony's gone crow, and Clint's codename has gotten more literal.

"The physical changes are relatively minor--"

"Captain America has a tail," Phil interrupts.

"Well, yes," the doctor admits. "But in terms of spectrum from 100 percent human to 100 percent animal, they're really only about 10 percent off human." He follows that up with an exhaustive run down of the physical alterations, most of which Phil has already observed. Steve's body temperature is apparently normal, while Bruce and Natasha are both running substantially cooler and Clint and Tony are running a couple of degrees warmer. Bruce's skin isn't just colored and textured, it's thicker as well. The growth on his head is a partially developed horn. Steve was making that odd motion with his mouth because his tongue has changed. Natasha has venom sacs to go with her fangs. Clint's feet are the same as his hands. Both Tony and Clint have lost some bone density, although not to a dangerous degree, which explains Clint's ease of movement. The list goes on in increasing detail.

When the doctor runs down, Phil nods and says, "Agent Barton suggested a behavioral component?" 

"That is...more difficult to quantify." The doctor frowns. "He was the only one who would speak about it in any detail, but he did indicate that he was experiencing hawk-like instincts. He didn't seem to find them problematic, though."

"I noticed he was...less agitated than the others," Phil says. "I wondered if he was covering." Normally he'd be more confident of his ability to judge Clint’s reactions, but there is an outside influence here.

The doctor shakes his head. "No, his willingness to discuss it convinces me that Agent Barton is genuinely unconcerned with the changes. He even figures he know which species he's borrowing from: the Red Tailed Hawk."

Trust Clint to get that specific. "Hmmm. Were you able to come to any conclusions based on his report and your observations?

"Only the most general," the doctor says reluctantly. "The behavioral influence appears to be consistent with their associated animals, but with the exception of Mr. Stark and Agent Barton, they're being easily suppressed. We've been unable to determine why Mr. Stark is so demonstrative; when we talk to him about it his agitation goes through the roof. He's the only one we're really concerned about, in that sense."

Stark is probably the member of the team with the least practice in impulse control, and the most prone to figeting when he's nervous. Phil nods. "Thank you, doctor. I'll want your full report on my desk by the end of the day."

The doctor returns the nod and departs, leaving Phil with Thor. Phil tilts his head towards the retreating doctor. "Does any of that help narrow down the type of magic Loki might have used?"

"Indeed," Thor agrees. "This is mischief magic, rather than one of Loki's greater spells. It is a weaker thing; he could not have transformed them entirely, but to draw out of them the traits of beasts they have some small kinship with, aye, that he could do."

"Any idea on how to return them to normal?" It's clear, now, why security is so high on this information. The Avengers can't be seen in public right now, which leaves a gap in their defenses. Fortunately, even a partial defeat of Loki usually buys them a week or two of quiet from other fronts.

Thor shakes his head. "All that we can do is wait. These traits are a product of Loki's anger, imposed from without. Over time, their true natures will win out."

Phil grimaces. "How much time?"

Thor spreads his hands uncertainly. "It will vary for each of them. But I have not seen such mischief hold fast more than a week."

"It's going to be a long week," Phil sighs.

Fortunately, everyone agrees that further quarantine is unnecessary, though the team is restricted to the Helicarrier. Stark goes to the labs and locks himself in; Phil assigns a rotation of agents to monitor the security feeds, just in case Stark flips or starts hoarding shiny objects. Natasha vanishes, which is actually a good sign; if she felt she was in danger, she wouldn't have left quarantine. They'll see her again when she doesn't feel conspicuous. Banner and Rogers lock themselves into their quarters. 

When Clint leaves medical, Phil falls into step next to him. The archer flashes him a smile.

To Phil's surprise, Clint doesn't head for the range. Instead, he makes a beeline for the observation deck, Phil following out of curiousity after Clint doesn’t turn off at the usual hallway. The sigh Clint releases at the sight of the expanse of cloud and the land far below is audible. He walks up to the windows and lays a hand on the glass. "I could feel we were up high," he says, staring out, "but it's good to see it."

"I don't understand why this doesn't bother you," Phil says. "Of all of them, I'd think you'd be the most sensitive to someone screwing with your head. Especially Loki."

Clint tilts his head, a short, sharp movement reminiscent of a bird, but not unfamiliar on Clint. "Maybe that's why," he offers. "I know what it feels like when something alien is forced on you." Phil remembers watching the footage, the staff touching Clint's chest...his stomach churns at the memory, but Clint is already going on. "This isn't like that. I don't think Loki chose the animals for us. I think something in each of us chose them for ourselves."

"I doubt the others would agree."

Clint chuckles and turns to face Phil, leaning his shoulder against the window. "Come on, don't you see it? Steve as man's best friend? Tony as the smart, tool using, raucously social crow? Banner as the armored herbivore, placid until challenged?"

"Natasha as a snake?" Phil challenges.

Clint turns serious. "Fast, deadly, and all too often overlooked."

"And Hawkeye as the hawk," Phil says with a shake of his head. "Wait, excuse me, the Red Tailed Hawk. Where did you get that, by the way?"

Clint grins. "What, you don't think I read up on them before choosing my codename? There are some behavioral clues, but really, the Red Tailed Hawk is the most common in North America, and the one I know most about. Stands to reason."

"So what now?" Phil asks.

Clint makes a thoughtful sound and takes one more look out the window. "Now I'm going to get some real food. Then I want to see if I really can shoot without a glove."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"I'm not going to suddenly snap," Clint says, giving him a sidelong glance.

Phil shrugs. "Everyone else is in hiding. Humor me."

Clint has always been willing to humor him. It's why they work so well together; they give each other room to experiment, to follow a hunch, to figure things out. It's no different now. Real food turns out to be a steak rarer than anything Phil has seen Clint eat before. On the range, they discover that he can, in fact, do without the shooting glove, but that the scaling on the inside of his forearm is too sparse to abandon the arm guard. Clint's eyesight has always been sharp enough not to need a scope for the bow's range, but now he sets it aside for the rifles, as well, at least until the range exceeds a full mile.

Clint doesn't say anything about it, but Phil can see the way his lips curl up when he makes a shot without the scope, the way his shoulders tense when he reports to medical the next day so that they can determine if the traits are fading the way Thor expects. They report no difference from the day before. 

Natasha doesn’t appear for the 24 hour check in. The others are all early—the first time any of them have ever appeared in medical early—but when the appointment time comes and goes and Natasha is still absent, the doctor glances at Phil. He simply nods for them to proceed with evaluating the rest of the team and keeps an eye on the door.

The doctors, once they’ve poked and prodded everyone until even Bruce twitches away, pronounce it too early to be see any significant change. Tony goes straight back to the lab. Steve slinks out with his tail literally between his legs; Phil has to restrain a smile at the sight. The smile melts away when Banner hangs back long enough to ask for a sedative. “Doctor,” Phil says as the doctor goes to the secure storage to retrieve the medication (sedatives that work on Banner are controlled substances), “are you having trouble?” Banner usually resists being sedated.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can just tell that we’re in the air. It’s…uncomfortable.” 

Banner has a habit of understating, especially things involving the Hulk. If he’s uncomfortable enough to ask for a sedative, they may have a problem. “We can transfer you to a ground facility, if necessary,” Phil offers.

“Stark Tower?” Banner asks, with a hopeful glance.

“Would that really help? Living quarters start on the twenty-fifth floor.”

Banner grimaces. “Maybe not. I appreciate the offer, Agent Coulson, but I can stick it out for a few days.”

"Let me know if you change your mind," Phil says, and notes the two doses of sedative the doctor releases; he’ll check in again in two days. "There's no reason to suffer."

Banner leaves and Clint finally hops off the bed where he’s been sitting and slots himself into place next to Phil. “Nat didn’t show,” he says in an undertone, as if he doesn’t want the doctor to hear.

“Natasha knows her own capacity,” Phil says, rolling his shoulders. “She’ll check in when she has something to report.” And when she isn’t so compromised; Natasha doesn’t like showing weakness.

“If she doesn’t show by tomorrow, I’m going looking.” Clint’s gaze is already darting about the medical bay, as if he expects her to spot her hiding behind a cabinet. 

Phil frowns. "Did you notice something off about her?"

"No," Clint says, scanning the room again. "I just...it's making my territory feel off."

Phil puts a hand on Clint’s upper arm. Clint’s eyes snap back to him. “Would you like to get some sparring in?”

Clint closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

The difference isn't big enough to be obvious, but Phil thinks Clint's reaction time is faster. Or maybe he's just moving faster. Or both. Either way, it's more work than usual to keep up with him. Here, safe in the Helicarrier where there aren’t any unfriendlies or a situation to monitor, Phil lets his focus narrow, blocking out everything but Clint. He tracks Clint's moments, the tension in his muscles, the shifts in his balance.

Contact comes in flurries, hands and feet landing with dull _thuds_ , both of them taking the blows with familiarity. Phil isn't sure how long they've been going when a few small details crystallize in his mind. He releases a careful breath, steps in, hesitates for a second. Clint takes advantage, seizes his wrist, turns and throws Phil over his hip. Phil stays limp, takes the fall, one hand going out before he's even recovered his breath to hook around Clint's ankle and yank. Clint doesn't have as much weight to plant as he used to; he goes down and Phil rolls, pinning him.

For one long moment, Phil looks down at Clint. They're both breathing hard, and Phil's t-shirt is sticking to him with sweat. Clint's gaze is fierce, the ring of bronze only underlining it. He grins; the expression in his eyes doesn't change a bit. Phil's heart pounds; God, Clint is magnificent. "You win," Clint says, but it doesn't sound like a concession at all.

Phil forces himself to move casually as he releases Clint and stands. "Your body weight has changed," he says, holding out a hand for Clint, not that he needs it.

He takes it anyway, letting Phil help him to his feet. "I know. I'm not used to it yet. I didn't want to try sparring with a junior agent first."

And Natasha hasn't been available. "She'll be there tomorrow," Phil says, hoping he's right. If there's more to this than it seems-- He looks at Clint, grinning and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, gesturing for Phil to come at him again, and hopes that, for once, everything is as it seems. She should be here, insisting that she isn't part of Clint's 'territory' and trading smirks with Phil when Clint isn't looking and letting him steal food off her plate anyway. He doesn't want to see what it would do to Clint if this changes her in any way that matters.


	2. Chapter 2

When Phil walks into the infirmary the next day to monitor the Avengers' 48 hour check in, Natasha is already sitting on one of the infirmary beds. He gives her a once-over and raises an eyebrow when he sees that the snake traits have all vanished. 

"Agent Romanov," he says. "You missed your appointment yesterday."

"I think we all knew 24 hours wasn't going to be long enough to make any substantial difference." Her voice is perfectly even, but the tilt of her mouth speaks, a silent concession she knows he can read. She wasn't about to be seen so compromised.

The others trickle in, greeting her--and her normal appearance--with varying degrees of relief. When Bruce catches sight of her his shoulders visibly relax. Steve's tail wags a couple of times before he flushes and it goes suddenly still. "Hey!" Tony greets her loudly. He strides up to her, hands raised as if to claps her shoulders, but stops and just waves them instead when she glares at him. "Looking good, Romanov. You got a cure tucked away somewhere?"

"Not unless you count self-awareness," Natasha says. Tony frowns, and she raises her eyebrows. "Thor said our true natures would win out. Stands to reason that the clearer your grasp on that, the faster it would happen." Clint walks in, just then, and she catches his eye. He perks up and crosses the room to sit next to her on the examination bed.

"Hey, my grasp is plenty clear," Tony protests. "Check it out." He sticks a hand in his hair-and-feathers and scrubs. A few black feathers float free.

Clint stares at Tony, his hands clenching in the sheets of the bed he's sitting on. Phil turns back to Tony. "Let's get a more scientific evaluation of that," he says. “You could just be going bald.”

The doctors agree, though. Tony's feathers are definitely breaking down. Steve's tail is substantially shorter, and the fine coating of blond fur is thinner, though it's so pale it's a little hard to tell. All they tell Clint and Bruce is that they'll keep monitoring them. Clint just nods, but Bruce mutters, "Excuse me," and hurries from the room.

Phil frowns, but Banner still has one sedative. Besides, Tony bounces off his examination bed and waves the rest of them off. "I've got this," he says, and heads out after Banner.

"I'm not sure if it reflects well or poorly on my judgment that I'm letting Stark handle that," Phil says when it's just him, Clint, and Natasha.

Clint chuckles. "They've kind of got an understanding. It's all good."

"Is it?" Phil asks, turning to look at him.

"Yeah." Clint meets his gaze and nods. 

Phil nods once, briskly. "And how about you? Things still feeling off?"

Natasha frowns and rounds on Clint. "Off how?"

Clint flushes red and Phil has to swallow a smile. "He was worried about you," Phil says, garnering an aggrieved glance from Clint.

"Oh, honestly," Natasha says, hopping off the examination bed they were sharing. "This was the magical equivalent of putting food dye in the shampoo bottle. Just because I don't want to be seen covered in blue blotches doesn't mean there's a problem."

"Excuse me for caring," Clint snarks.

Natasha turns and walks backwards out of the infirmary. "You're excused," she says archly, and Clint rolls his eyes. 

When she's gone he shakes himself and shrugs sheepishly at Phil. "So, she's fine."

"I said she would be," Phil says; Clint lets him have the 'I told you so.' "I need to report to Fury." 

"I'm going to climb the radio tower."

Phil shoots him a glance. "Use a safety line."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Coulson--"

"Use one."

"Fine," Clint mutters.

Phil resists the urge to rub his forehead. At least until he's alone.

A stack of paperwork greets Phil's upon his arrival in his office and he really does rub his forehead this time. He knows every possible trick, shortcut, and variation on the myriad SHIELD reports; that doesn't mean he likes doing them. Still, he's not going to trust the Avengers to anyone else, so he installs himself at his desk and does his best to lose himself in lists and text boxes too small to contain even the most basic summary of a typical Avengers mission. The archives hate the Avengers--they generate more appendices and cross-references than any other two divisions at SHIELD.

The reports do manage to absorb him, though, at least until someone knocks on the frame of his door and pushes it the rest of the way open; he'd left it open a sliver. Clint steps into the room and Phil leans back in his chair. His neck twinges.

"Have you eaten yet?" Clint asks.

Phil blinks a couple of times and checks the time. It's 9:38pm. "No," he say, and sighs. A muscle in his neck spasms.

Clint tilts his head. "You can go ahead and rub that, you know. It's just me."

Phil shoots him a look, but reaches up and massages the protesting muscle. "You're not 'just' anything, Barton."

Clint grins. "Careful, sir, I might take that as encouragement." He goes on before Phil can interject a comeback. "The others didn't want to eat in a crowd, but the dinner rush ought to be over now. You want to join us?"

If they're eating together, Phil will be able to check in on them without seeming to hover. "Sure. Thanks."

The dining hall isn't deserted, SHIELD agents keep hours too irregular for that, but at almost ten at night there's only a scattering of people and it’s easy to find a table in a quiet corner. Tony and Bruce are already there when Clint and Phil arrive. Bruce is quiet, but he gives a small smile when Phil greets him, so letting Tony handle him was apparently the right call.

Thor and Natasha join them a few minutes later, one right after the other, and once Thor is at the table it gets a lot less quiet. He and Tony talk over each other without any apparent rancor, and Bruce chuckles to himself a lot and takes to flicking the nuts garnishing his salad across the table. Tony keeps snatching them up and eating them without looking, and it's not until Clint intercepts one and pings it off his forehead that Tony seems to realize what he was doing. He pokes Bruce in retaliation, and Bruce just laughs more. Clint leans over to Phil and Natasha and murmurs. "I can't tell if that's the crow or just Tony Stark."

Natasha smirks. "It can't be both?"

Phil's lips quirk, but he's got half an eye on the door, because Steve hasn't shown up yet.

It's eleven by the time the group breaks up. Phil keeps Clint back with a touch to his elbow. "Do you know if Captain Rogers ate earlier?" Phil asks.

"I don't think so," Clint says. "He's been keeping to himself. I'm surprised he didn't show up to eat, though. His metabolism is pretty high gear. He must be starving by now."

Phil frowns. Steve usually falls on the social end of the spectrum. When he's injured, he wants people around him. Avoiding interaction is a sign that something is bothering him. "I think I'd better go find him."

"You want me to come?" Clint asks. The two of them stand and dispose of the trash left over from their meals and rack the trays and dishes to be cleaned.

"No," Phil says. Clint might be too much of a reminder of what's happened recently. Natasha would probably be acceptable--proof that the changes are fading--but even though Steve hasn't seen the detailed reports that Phil has, Clint's persistent hawk traits are obvious. 

Clint nods. "I'll be up late," he says before turning down the corridor outside the mess hall towards his quarters.

Phil watches him for a moment. The feathers in his hair and the rough texture of his hands don't show at a distance, but there's a lightness in his step and a sharpness in his movements that weren’t there before. And yet, the sheer physicality of Clint's movements is the same. 

Phil turns and heads for Steve's quarters.

Steve isn't there, but it's an easy guess as to the next best place. Sure enough, Phil finds him in the gym, going at the heavy bag that Stark made for him, specifically engineered to take Super Soldier style beating. The gym isn't empty--space on the Helicarrier is too much at a premium for there to be two gyms and active field agents need to train--but there is a polite distance between Steve and everyone else.

Phil circles to make sure he's approaching from within Steve's field of view and stops a few feet away. Steve shirt is damp; he must have been going at it since before dinner, to have worked up a sweat. His eyes flick over to Phil, but he doesn't stop. His tail, less than a foot long now, is tucked down hard. The sweat darkens the fur on his face and arms enough that it's visible.

Eventually, Phil clears his throat. Steve stops immediately and sighs. He straightens up and begins unwinding the wraps from his hands, speaking without looking at Phil. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"I was going to ask the same question," Phil says. "You didn't come to dinner."

"Wasn't hungry," Steve replies. Phil doesn't reply, because they both know how unlikely that is, no matter how unsettled Steve feels. Even without the serum hiking up their metabolisms, the others have been eating a lot as their bodies work to recover the physical changes. Except Clint. Phil doesn't think the others have noticed, because Clint is eating so much more meat, but the actual number of calories he's consuming hasn't changed that much.

Steve shakes his head and looks at Phil as the last of the wraps come loose. "Honestly, I feel like I'm _too_ hungry," he admits.

"Your body is under stress," Phil says. "You need the energy."

"Maybe." Steve strides over to the wall and drops down onto the bench there. After a moment, Phil takes a seat on the adjacent bench. "It's hard to tell what's normal and what's because of," Steve waves up and down at himself, "this."

Phil presses his lips together. "Have you been having behavioral issues?" he asks carefully. If he has, they should have been reported to the doctors, but Phil knows how paranoid field agents can get about their status. "Confidentially," he adds.

"Depends on what you mean by 'issues'," Steve says. He scrubs a hand through his hair, then grimaces and drops it, passing the wraps from one hand to the other and squeezing them. He glances at Phil, down at his hands, over at Phil again. "I'm used to the physical stuff," he says suddenly, turning and leaning towards Phil a bit. "I mean, it was weird, and sudden, but so was the serum, really. I did a bit of poking around, figured out how it worked, and it's not too bad. But the _mental_ stuff..." He shook his head. "Before the serum, Erskine told me that he picked me because of the kind of person I was. It was important to him that that not change. And it didn't." Steve blows out a breath. "I'm not saying this right."

"No, it's okay," Phil assures him quickly. "Go on."

"I just-- Everything changed around me, but I was still me," Steve goes on. "In some ways, I was more me. There was stuff I wanted to do, before, stuff I felt like I should do, that I wasn't _able_ to do. And suddenly I could. As much as everything changed, and I had to deal with that, I still felt like the same person dealing with it. But this-- I catch myself wanting to chase after stuff. Standing too close to people I'm comfortable with. And then there's the tail wagging." Steve grimaces and shakes himself, the kind of all over shake that dogs do. Then he sighs, shoulders slumping, and looks at Phil. "And stuff like that. Would I move like that, before? Is that me, or is that Loki's trick? I can't tell. I need to be me, Agent Coulson. Everything else has changed, I can't handle me changing, too."

Phil chooses his words carefully. "As exaggerated as the instincts are," he says, "they aren't entirely out of character." What was it Clint said? _I don't think Loki chose the animals for us. I think something in each of us chose them for ourselves._ "It seems like the choice for the associated animals wasn't exactly up to Loki."

"No!" Steve surges to his feet and starts pacing. "We're more than this," he says intently. "We're more than just animals. More than our instincts." Steve shakes his head sharply. "I'm sorry, sir, I need to go."

He bolts from the room, and for all his words, that's the most uncharacteristic thing Steve has done since all this started. He’s running like a spooked dog in a thunderstorm. Phil resists the urge to rub his hands over his face. Hopefully Steve is just unsettled and this isn't a sign that the situation is taking a turn for the worse. Natasha is virtually back to normal already. Steve just has to hold it together a few more days; this won't break him.

Phil pushes himself up off the bench and leaves the gym. He means to head for his own quarters, but he's thinking about Steve running from the gym and his feet carry him past his door. He finds himself outside Clint's rooms and hesitates for a moment. It's late...but _I'll be up late._ Like he knew. Phil triggers the chime.

"Come in!" comes faintly through the door, so Phil opens it and is met with a wash of music.

The quarters on the Helicarrier are spartan, consisting of a bed, a desk, and a bathroom. It's more a concession to limited space, rather than the supposedly temporary nature of the rooms. The more junior agents share, but Clint has both seniority and status, so he gets a room to himself. At the moment he's stretched out on the bed, laying on his back with his arms stretched over his head and one leg bent, bare foot tapping to the music. His eyes are closed and Phil finds his gaze tracing the solid, exposed curve of Clint's triceps. He swallows before speaking. "You didn't ask who it was."

"I was pretty sure it was you," Clint opens his eyes. The bronze ring makes them seem to sparkle more than usual. "And I'm not doing anything embarrassing if I was wrong."

Phil closes the door and pulls the desk chair out to sit on it. "How'd you know?"

Clint shrugs. "Captain America's not supposed to freak out."

"Captain America's freak outs are very discreet and contained," Phil says wryly, but he sighs, too. "Every man has his limits."

"Steve's are more flexible than most, but he had to find them eventually," Clint agrees. "Honestly, I'm kind of relieved. Can't trust a man if you don't know where his breaking point is."

"You don't trust him?" Phil asks, frowning.

"I trust him some." Clint shrugs. "More than most, less than you. Steve's world isn't exactly black and white, but it's got a lot fewer shades of gray than mine does. Hell, that's probably why he's having trouble with this whole get-in-touch-with-your-spirit-animal thing."

Phil is momentarily distracted from the topic at hand by Clint's turn of phrase. "Spirit animal?" His lips twitch.

Clint grins, unashamed. "Come on, you have a better word for it? 'The animals from which we draw traits' is a bit of a mouthful."

"Says the man who works for The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Directorate."

"There's a reason we go by SHIELD," Clint replies, his grin widening.

"So why would having fewer shades of grey make Steve have trouble with his," Phil raises an eyebrow, "spirit animal?"

Clint rolls onto his side and props his head up on his hand. Phil carefully doesn’t look too long at the way it makes his biceps flex. Or at the tilt of his hip, or the sliver of belly that shows because his shirt is twisted around. "We laugh at the spirit animal thing because we were kids when the whole New Age bit was getting going," he says, "and we don't think it's too weird because we watched it settle down into something more than a fad, but Steve wasn't there for all that. I know he got a bit on paganism in his cultural seminar, and he's fucking awesome at doing the whole whatever-floats-your-boat thing, but he's still the type of guy who hears 'you're an animal' and automatically takes it as an insult. Animals are one thing and people are another, and you don't treat 'em the same, not in his head. And now he's somewhere in the middle." Clint shrugs. "Shade of grey."

Part of Phil wants to ask if that's part of why Clint is handling this so well, but after his conversation with Steve the question feels a bit like looking a gift horse in the mouth, so he just makes a thoughtful noise. "How was the radio tower?" he asks instead, recalling Clint's plan to climb it.

Clint grins. "Great. I got all the way to the top and my hands didn't even hurt." He holds one hand out, clearly admiring the scaled texture of it. "I don't think my hands sweat anymore, either. They definitely sweat less, anyway. Oh! And check this out." He swings his legs around, sitting up as he does so, and puts one foot almost in Phil's lap. Phil watches as Clint flexes his foot into a much sharper curve than normal, though it isn’t quite a full grip.

Phil starts to touch, then pauses and looks at Clint. "May I?"

"Sure." Clint tilts his head to the side, watching as Phil takes his foot in his hands.

The scaled texture, the same as on his hands, is tough and uneven, but not rough the way sandpaper is rough. Phil runs his thumb up the flexed sole of Clint's foot and looks up when Clint blows out a short breath, his foot relaxing abruptly. "Sorry," Phil says, letting go. He should have known better; most people are ticklish on the soles of their feet.

Clint ducks his head. "It's fine."

It's late, and he's really just killing time, but it's still more of an effort than Phil would like to admit to stand. "I should get some sleep." He hesitates. Clint nods. "Good night," Phil says finally. He pauses in the hallway and shakes his head before setting off for his own quarters.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony and Steve are both early and cheerful at the three day checkup the next afternoon. Feathers and fur alike have broken down completely overnight, and Steve's tail has shrunk down enough that he's in a regular pair of sweatpants, instead of the set with the hole. Phil suspects Natasha will get the all clear from the less visible affects today.

Bruce arrives shortly after Thor, who has come for moral support since he isn't effected himself. Bruce has his hands tucked into his pockets and his head ducked, as if that could hide the vestigial horn he’s developed thanks to Loki's magic. If it's any smaller, Phil can't see the difference. Bruce doesn't make eye contact, just hops up on one of the exam beds and picks at his pants while they wait for the doctor.

The doctor has already given Natasha the all clear by the time Clint arrives. His eyes flicker around the room, assessing, and when he levers himself up onto one of the exam beds, he picks one that puts his back almost against the wall and has good sight lines. Phil suppresses a frown; Clint has been atypically relaxed in medical since this began. Why should that change now?

Clint sits stone still through the doctor's examination, the kind of still he gets when he can't afford to flinch. Phil finds himself gravitating towards the end of Clint's bed, but Clint doesn't so much as glance at him.

"Well," the doctor says, standing and facing the semicircle of the team, their charts stacked on a cart by his hand, "we were pretty sure yesterday, but I can confirm now that Thor was correct." The doctor nodded to Thor, who nodded in return. "Most of you are showing clear progress in shedding the traits imposed on you by Loki's magic."

"Most?" Bruce breaks in sharply. His fingers tighten on the exam bed.

The doctor smiles reassuringly. "Your progress has been slow, Dr. Banner, but there _is_ progress. Agent Romanov has returned completely to baseline, and Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers are well on their way."

Tony turns to Steve and raises his hand for a high five, then rolls his eyes and slaps Steve on the shoulder instead when he fails to cooperate. "Mind over matter, Bruce," he says cheerfully. "You'll get there."

Bruce smiles wryly but doesn't respond. Possibly because his life has been an exercise in mind over matter for some time now.

"How about me, doc?" Clint asks, his voice a study in casual.

The doctor's smile becomes a little fixed. "It's the same process, Agent Barton. I'm sure you're just a little further along the spectrum than Doctor Banner."

"This going to cause me problems if it doesn't wear off?"

That gets the rest of the team's attention. "Hey, now, don't talk like that!" Tony protests.

"I think it's a little early to be asking questions like that," Steve says. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

Natasha doesn't speak, but the look she pins on Clint is sharp, knowing. When she looks away, it's Phil's gaze that she meets. He can read the question there-- _Is it wearing off?_ \--and shakes his head slightly. 

Clint waves off the team. "I'm just asking." He raises an eyebrow at the doctor, though, making it clear he does want the question answered.

"Nothing significant," the doctor answers. "We'd want to watch your nutrition carefully, make sure your dietary needs haven't changed, and you could use supplements to increase your bone density, or you'll be susceptible to breaks. Little things like that."

The tension goes out of Clint's shoulders. It's subtle, but Phil is watching. Clint thanks the doctor. The team deliver additional reassurances as they disperse, but Clint just nods and lets their words roll off of him.

When they've all gone, Clint turns to Phil. "Something wrong, boss?" he reaches up and scratches roughly at the base of a cluster of feathers, then automatically smoothes them back into place afterward.

"No," Phil says after a moment. "No problem. Would you like to go a round in the gym?"

Clint grins and hops off the exam bed. "Absolutely! Nat won't spar with me." He frowns. "She said she didn't want to throw off her reactions for after things got back to normal."

Phil thinks of her look during the exam, of his response. "Might be worth asking again," he says.

"Yeah?" Clint tilts his head, the frown fading. "I will, then. But later; you've got dibs now."

"Dibs?" Phil raises his eyebrows as he follows Clint out of medical and steadfastly ignores a tiny flare of warmth. "Haven't we outgrown that sort of thing?"

Clint shoots him a sly grin. "You tell me, sir. I don't think I worked with a single other handler for something like a year before the Avengers even got going. Seems to me like someone called dibs."

"Maybe no other handler would have you," Coulson says, but he can feel the tips of his ears go red.

"I might even buy that," Clint says. He turns around, walking backwards so that he can face Phil."Except that Liu tried to do an end run around your little monopoly; he came and asked me himself."

The frown slips out before Phil can catch it. "You haven't been on any ops with Liu."

"'Cause I turned him down." Clint's eyes twinkle. "I never said I _minded_."

*

Clint is the last to appear for the four day examination, coming in even after Natasha, who technically doesn't need to be there at all. Phil takes up position near Clint's usual bed when he arrives; he relaxes a little when Clint hops up onto the bed, almost close enough to Phil for their shoulders to brush. Clint fixes a laser-like gaze first on Steve, then Tony. All of their visible traits have faded. A muscle jumps in Clint’s jaw.

The doctors descend and begin their tests. The lead physician, Phil notices, comes directly to Clint, leaving his assistants to handle the work ups for Tony, Steve, and Bruce. He’s trying to hide it, but Phil can see the doctor becoming more and more displeased as the examination proceeds. Clint just stares into the distance and follows orders.

They have to wait a few minutes for the data to be processed. Clint’s hands clench and release the sheets on the exam bed. Phil lowers his voice. “Clint. Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” Clint hisses back.

It’s a loaded question, but Phil still has to hold back a quip about ruffled feathers. “Aside from the bedding you’re currently mangling, you seem fine.”

Clint looks down at his hands and lets out a slow breath as he relaxes them. “All of Bruce’s progress has been under the skin.” It should be a reassuring comment. It’s not.

“Tony’s wasn’t,” Phil says. “And your change is more like his.”

Clint looks over at Phil. “Sir—”

“Good news,” the head doctor says, striding back into the exam area. He smiles at Steve and Tony. “Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers, you have returned to baseline.”

To Phil’s surprise, Tony is the one who slumps and says, “Oh, thank God.” He looks up to see them all staring and rolls his eyes. “Do you guys have any idea how irritating it was to be so easily _distracted?_ I haven’t gotten a damn thing finished since this started.”

“Oh, come on,” Clint smirks. “You’ve always been a bit bird-brained.”

“Says the guy who’s still sporting feathers,” Tony shoots back.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Bruce snaps. His hand goes up to brush the horn still sprouting from his forehead.

Chagrin flickers over Tony’s face. “Hey, sorry, big guy,” he says. “But you _are_ getting there,” he looks at the doctor, “right?”

“Dr. Banner is definitely making progress,” the doctor agrees. He hesitates, glancing at Clint, but allows himself to be interrupted when Tony suggests celebrating his return to relative normality with drinks.

“I still can’t get drunk, Tony,” Steve reminds him.

Tony points at him and claps a hand onto Bruce’s shoulder. “And Bruce and I are still trying to change that. Come on, we’ve got a liver to beat.”

The doctor glances at Clint again, so Phil jumps in. “Agent Romanov, if you could ensure the structural integrity of the lab,” he says dryly. “I need a word with Agent Barton.”

“If they actually get Steve drunk,” Natasha says, “I’m having some.”

Phil smiles a little. “If they get Steve drunk, they’ll be back here in medical before too long, I suspect.”

Once they’re gone, the doctor pulls up a stool and sits down in front of Phil and Clint. “Agent Barton,” he says, “I’ll be blunt: We haven’t seen any measureable change in your physiology since the transformation.”

“It took Bruce awhile to get started,” Clint points out.

The doctor shakes his head. “It took awhile before Doctor Banner’s progress became statistically significant, but there _was_ change. In addition, although I can’t be sure of this, I suspect he recovered from the behavioral influence before his physical recovery began. It’s not that he began recovering at a different time, it’s that he began at a different rate. Our extrapolations tell us that Dr. Banner will be back to baseline in two, maybe three more days, in line with Thor’s seven day timeline. We can’t even form a timeline for you.”

The doctor looks pained, but Clint smiles. “Hey, it’s okay, doc,” he says. “This isn’t exactly anything you were trained for. I think you’re doing pretty good.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Barton. We’re taking a closer look at the data, with an eye towards more proactive measures.” The doctor grimaces. “We should have been doing that before, but we were operating under the assumption that it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Doc,” Clint says, and waits for the doctor to meet his gaze. “I’m serious. It’s okay.”

Reluctantly, the doctor nods and stands. “I’ll forward the full reports to you, Agent Coulson,” he says, and departs.

When he’s gone, Clint rolls his shoulders, tosses Phil a grin, and hops off of the exam bed. “I’m going to go catch up with the others,” he says. “You wanna come?”

“The day I get drunk in front of Tony Stark is the day I resign from SHIELD,” Phil says dryly. Clint just laughs and waves as he leaves medical.

Phil makes his way back to his office, wakes his computer, and logs into one of the many research databases SHIELD subscribes to. He isn't entirely sure what he needs to know, but ‘Red Tailed Hawk’ gives him somewhere to start.

*

It’s past dinner time and the remains of a sandwich are growing hard around the edges on a corner of Phil’s desk when a junior agent calls in to report that Captain Rogers has deposited a thoroughly sloshed Tony Stark in his temporary quarters. He should probably withdraw the surveillance now that the two of them are back to baseline, though no one will be leaving the carrier until the seven days are up. At the moment, however, it’s useful. It’s always better to know exactly where Tony Stark is when he’s drunk enough to have to be carried.

Phil saves the document he’d been taking notes in and minimizes his browser window, though he doesn’t bother closing it. He hesitates over the jacket now draped over the back of his chair. More formal, or less? In the end he picks it up and puts it on. It’s Dr. Banner he’s checking in with, not Clint, and if he presents himself differently than usual Banner will worry something isn't going according to plan.

Bruce’s eyes are clear when he answers his door. No matter what they cooked up in the lab for Steve, Banner doesn’t drink to intoxication. “Agent Coulson,” he says. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” Phil says. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Are you checking in with the others?” Bruce asks, but he steps back and lets Phil into his quarters. They’re much like Clint’s.

“I spoke to Agent Barton earlier, and Captain Rogers a couple of days ago.”

Bruce sighs and sits at the desk. Phil stands rather than sit on the bed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume.”

“It’s understandable that you’re not feeling yourself,” Phil says.

But Banner waves off the comment. “If you mean the behavioral stuff, I’ve got a handle on that.” Phil raises his eyebrows and Bruce smiles wryly. “I’ve had the Other Guy lurking in my head for years, Agent Coulson. I’ve gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing.”

“You still seem…out of sorts,” Phil contradicts carefully.

Banner closes his eyes and rubs at the lids. “I’m tired of not seeing myself when I look in the mirror.”

Ah. Phil makes himself sit, even if the bed is the only available place. He wants to do this at eye level, to let Banner know they’re equals in the conversation. “If it helps, the doctor says you’ll be back to baseline in two or three days.” Banner looks up at him inquiringly. “I had a somewhat frank discussion with him this afternoon,” Phil adds. “They’re satisfied with your progress, just like they’ve told you”

“They wouldn’t ask you to stay after for ‘satisfied’.”

Phil shakes his head. “They didn’t ask me to stay to talk about you. It just came up.”

“Ah,” Bruce lifts his chin. “Clint.” Of course he’s noticed. Even dealing with his own transformation, Banner’s still one of the top scientific minds in the country. He’s had to notice Clint’s lack of change. “How’s he holding up?”

Ask again in three days, Phil thinks “How does he seem?” Phil asks .

Bruce shrugs. “Fine. He was singing when Natasha dragged him back to his room.” Phil can’t help smiling; Clint has a good voice, but it always takes a few drinks to get him to show it off. He’ll have to see if Natasha got audio. Bruce gives him a curious look. “You two have known each other a long time.”

"Six years," Phil confirms. "Why do you mention it?"

Bruce takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "Like I said, I know something about compartmentalizing. I know about having something that's not quite you up here," he taps his temple. "Natasha never gave me the chance to see her response, but I could see Steve and Tony trying to deal with it. Clint seems...fine. I wondered if you'd noticed something; you know him better."

"Clint really is fine," Phil says. He pauses; how much of this is personal? How personal? "This experience hasn't been the same for him as it has been for the rest of you," he finishes.

"How so?" Bruce asks, but that's too far into the personal for the purposes of Phil’s visit. 

Phil shakes his head and stands. "Hang in there a little longer, Dr. Banner. You're almost through this."

Bruce looks at him for a long moment before he shrugs and smiles tiredly. "I know how to hang in there, Agent Coulson. Don't worry about me."


	4. Chapter 4

Despite being declared clear, Steve and Tony both show up to the five day examination, apparently taking their cues from Thor and Natasha and showing team solidarity, even if Thor's only been turning up every other day. Bruce is visibly more upbeat, which Phil chalks up to the fact that his horn has shrunk a couple of inches overnight. 

But they all cast uneasy looks at Clint when the doctor reports no progress. They reassure each other that it took Bruce this long to show change, surely Clint will soon follow. The doctor looks uncomfortable and Phil shoots him a quelling look, because Clint is sitting easy next to him, feet tucked up away from the floor, leaning casually on his knees.

Clint drags him to lunch in the cafeteria, after. The others had avoided crowded areas, but it’s a quarter after noon and the place is packed, and Clint only seems worried about the quality of the food.

"I'm not kidding," he says, as they shuffle along in the line, wrinkling his nose at the options. "One day a supervillain will be spawned from the kitchens in this place."

"You don't know the half of it," the civilian contractor serving them mutters. Clint laughs and the guy shoots Phil a sheepish glance and a shrug as he scoops spaghetti and meatballs onto Phil’s plate.

Phil smiles to let him know he's not in trouble and points at the steamed vegetables. "At least we'll be in prime position for containment," he tells Clint.

"Yeah, but think of the damage," Clint says. He sweeps his gaze over the mess hall and its metal tables (bolted to the floor) and gray plastic benches (to reduce serious injury in the event that everything goes flying when they hit a pocket of bad air), and smirks at Phil. "Actually, never mind."

They find a table with space at the end and slide onto the benches. The agents nearest them, already a couple of feet down the table, cast a glance at them and shift further away. They're subtle, it almost looks like they're just shifting in their seats or leaning over to talk to friends, but they end up a good foot more distant. Phil frowns.

"Hey." Phil turns his attention back to Clint, who just shrugs. "Don't death glare them, Coulson. It's just weird. They'll get used to it."

"SHIELD agents are supposed to be able to handle weird," Phil grumbles. Clint's tray has nothing on it but a Dr. Pepper and a plate covered in meatballs. No spaghetti. Phil reaches out with his fork and clears a space before forking over half of his vegetables.

Clint watches him with an odd little smile. "Hawks are carnivores," he says.

Phil points his fork at him. "You're still 90% human. Eat."

"Yeah, yeah." Clint picks up his fork, but before he digs in he transfers a meatball to Phil's plate.

Phil almost says something--he has plenty to eat--but Clint's eyes drop to his meal and Phil remembers that sharing food is a friendship gesture for hawks. "Thanks," he says instead, and Clint shoots him a quick grin.

*

By the time the six day checkup rolls around the next afternoon, Bruce has completely lost the horn and the texture of his skin is back to normal. He's still a bit gray, but it's subtle. He smiles and nods through everything the doctor says, and Phil is pretty sure he's not actually hearing it. These examinations have been too much about what hasn't been changing; Bruce is anxious to see the end of them, Phil is sure.

But if Banner has finally relaxed, the rest of them have gone right back to nervous. Phil leans on the bed that Clint is sitting on, cross-legged. He pulls his feet up whenever he has the chance, these days, like a bird tucking themselves into their perch. Clint isn't looking at the rest of the team, but they're all looking at him, everyone but Bruce frowning to one degree or another.

When the doctor comes in with Bruce and Clint's test results, Tony interrupts before he can begin. "Cut to the chase, doc." Tony points at Clint. "Has he made any progress at all?"

The doctor turns to look at Clint, too. Under the weight of the team's combined gaze, Clint blinks bronze-ringed eyes and scratches at the feathers in his hair with a scaled finger. The others, in their hybrid states, had been awkward, occasionally even silly, but Clint is all sleek fierceness.

"No," the doctor sighs.

Tony and Steve burst into alarmed shouting, but neither Bruce nor Natasha look at all surprised. The doctor tries to speak, but they're talking over him. Eventually, Phil puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle. Steve and Tony both cut off mid-sentence and jerk around to look at him. Phil nods to the doctor, who takes a deep breath. "We don't understand what’s different," he says. "All of you," he nods to Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Bruce, "showed a progressive subsidence of the imposed traits from the very beginning. The rates were difference, but the progression was effectively the same. Agent Barton is not just taking longer; he hasn't shown any change at all since the change was first imposed."

Clint shifts a little on the exam bed, but doesn’t speak. Phil looks at him, but he doesn't seem tense, just displeased. Phil considered for a moment and realizes: 'imposed.' That's not how Clint thinks about it. But he's doesn't correct the doctor.

The team is quiet for a moment. Eventually, Bruce breaks the silence. "So...he's not going to change back? At all?"

"Not spontaneously," the doctor says. "Thor assured me he would be here tomorrow. Hopefully he'll be able to shed some light on the situation. But, just in case, my team has been taking another look at the data, with an eye towards developing therapies that can return Agent Barton to...well, most likely not to baseline," the doctor admits. "Thor really is the better option. But if it comes to it, we'll get as close as we can."

Phil takes a discreet look at Clint, but aside from the muscle jumping in his jaw, he's the same.

"Do you mind if I join your people?" Bruce asks. He glances at Clint, but quickly returns his attention to the doctor. "I have some...related experience."

"Ah, of course," the doctor nods. "Another perspective is always welcome."

Tony looks like he wants to offer, too, but he hasn't got the biological background; the research he collaborates on with Bruce is energy-based. Phil won't be surprised if he turns up in either the labs or medical, anyway. 

Steve comes over to Clint and puts a hand on his shoulder. "We'll figure this out," he says in a quieter version of his command voice, and gives Clint a little squeeze.

"I appreciate the thought, Cap," Clint says. He unfolds his legs and slides out from under the comforting hand. "But if you don't mind, I think I'm gonna spend a little time on the range."

"Of course." Steve backs off a step. "You give us a call if you need anything."

Clint touches two fingers to his brow, a casual salute. "Will do."

Natasha follows Clint, but Phil doesn’t tag along. Considering the way things are going, he needs to speak to the Director.

Fury looks surprised when Phil steps into his office after a quick knock. "You're a day early," he says. Hill had kept him informed, initially, and Phil had given him a full update after reviewing the doctors' reports, but with Thor's assurances about the Avengers recovering on their own, neither of them had planned to meet before day seven, when Thor would presumably give the team the all clear.

"Things have not proceeded as expected," Phil says.

Fury sighs. "Do they ever, with that team? What's happening?"

"Banner, Stark, Romanov, and Rogers have all returned to baseline as expected," Phil says. It's a marginal exaggeration where Banner is concerned, but Nick values Phil's judgment when it comes to which extraneous details he doesn't need clouding the big picture. "But Barton hasn't changed at all since the initial event."

Fury gives him a long look. "You don't seem too concerned. Considering the agent involved and his previous experience with Loki..."

Phil seats himself in front of Fury's desk and automatically smoothes out his jacket. "I've been spending a lot of time with Barton over the past week," he says. Fury raises his eyebrows, as if to say, don't you always? Phil ignores the look. "He hasn't displayed any of the agitation or dissociation that all of the others have. Sir, if it weren't for the physical changes, I wouldn't know the difference." Phil pauses; that's not quite right. "I wouldn't know the difference between Barton now and Barton two weeks ago--if the Barton of two weeks ago was having a really good day."

"That's still a change," Fury points out.

"Sir." Phil pauses, lines up his thoughts. "Clint has a theory about all of this," he says finally. "He believes that while Loki triggered the transformations, the nature of them was drawn from the Avengers themselves. It makes sense; Loki doesn't know them well enough to select such appropriate animal equivalents. He could have imposed traits at random, of course, but the animals associated with each Avenger really were appropriate. It seems unlikely that he'd get lucky five times at once."

"It's magic," Fury says, playing devil's advocate. "There's no saying it required that much direction from Loki."

Phil is suddenly glad that Thor likes to follow a successful battle with a long, detailed tale of a past triumph. "From what I've learned from Thor, magic doesn't work that way. It's not a matter of making a wish; it has structure and it requires skill, and not all Asgardians are good with it. Loki is the best, but he _does_ have to craft his spells, and he didn't have much time for this one."

"Fair enough. So Barton's animal was a little more appropriate than the others. How does that impact his return to baseline?"

"That's not exactly what I was getting at," Phil says. He has a theory, too, but it's not going to help him any in this meeting. "What I mean, sir, is that the change doesn't seem to have had a significant impact on Agent Barton. I don't think we need to worry about him."

Fury frowns. "You want him back in the field."

"We'll wait until Thor returns tomorrow and the doctors can make their first evaluation of possible therapies," Phil says. "But even if they aren't able to help...yes, I do."

Leaning back in his chair, Fury folds his hands together and watches Phil for a long time. Phil is steady under his gaze. "You're asking a lot, considering Barton's history with Loki's magic. And yours."

He's aiming to make Phil flinch, but this is Clint. He's spent the past week being reminded over and over just how settled Clint is in his skin and his skills and his place at SHIELD. Phil smiles at Fury. "Yes, sir."

* 

Thor is with them at the final examination the next day. He frowns at Clint when he sees him, and the expression fades only into concern. Even Bruce's all-clear prompts only a brief smile and a shoulder clap before he's back to studying Clint. 

Of course, once Bruce is in the clear, they _all_ turn and look at Clint. 

Despite the intensity of their regard, he simply nods at Bruce. "Congrats."

"Thor," Tony says, "please tell me you can fix this." He waves at Clint. "You said a week. You seemed pretty sure. But the docs says Clint hasn't even started to change back."

"I have never seen such magic take longer to fade," Thor says, shaking his head. He gestures at Clint. "I would help if I could, my friend, but I am unskilled in magics. I am sorry."

Clint shrugs. "Don't sweat it."

" _Don't sweat it?_ " Tony exclaims, but it's Steve who turns to the doctor.

"Is there anything you can do?" he asks. "You mentioned your team was looking into options."

"We have been," the doctor says. "But...Captain Rogers, I've never seen anything like this." He turns to Clint. "Agent Barton, your hybrid changes extend right down to the genetic level. This is beyond our ability to reverse."

Tony waves a hand. "No, no, gene therapy is a thing, I've read about it."

Phil suspects Tony has read about it very recently. It's a moot point, though, because Banner is shaking his head. "Not on this level, Tony," he says. "Gene therapy focuses on flipping very simple genetic switches. Clint has had whole sequences manipulated."

Steve looks stricken. "You're saying this is permanent?"

He's looking at Bruce, but Phil interjects. "Unless we can track down Loki, then yes. That is exactly what he's saying."

"The rest of us have returned to normal," Natasha says, fixing her gaze on Thor. "Why is Clint different?"

"It is not that you have returned to normal," Thor tells her thoughtfully. "It is that your true nature re-asserted itself over traits you felt alien to that sense of self." He meets Clint's gaze. "These traits have not faded for you because you find them to be within your nature."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that part out," Clint says dryly. Phil suppresses a smile. "Guys, I get that you're freaked out, but I'm good. I feel," he shrugs, "normal, for lack of a better word."

"Are we sure Loki didn't do this intentionally?" Steve asks uneasily. "Could he have been using a smaller magic to disguise a larger one?" Phil lifts his chin, swallows a bit of irrational pride; it's a good question. Steve has an extraordinarily flexible mind, more than anyone else had expected. Seventy years of culture, a quantum leap in technology, magic...none of it puts him off his game for long.

"I am certain that there was only one spell," Thor says, but he casts a second glance at Clint.

Clint looks at Phil, wary for the first time. "Am I going to be allowed back into the field?" 

Phil allows himself to smile, this time, though it might come out a hair smug. "Yes." He pauses, quirks an eyebrow at Clint. "Although I think undercover operations are off the table."

Clint laughs. "Fine with me." He bounces in place. "It'll be good to get hunting again."

Clint doesn't seem to notice his choice in words, but the rest of the team exchange a glance. "Clint," Steve says, "I get that you feel fine, and I know Thor says you're stuck like this because of you, not because of Loki, but we can't just leave it alone. What if he can use the mark he's made on you, somehow? If you aren't going to turn back on your own, we need to track him down."

"I'm not compromised," Clint snaps, his good humor vanishing. "I know myself. I've even been playing nice with the SHIELD head shrinkers this week. I'm not going to endanger the team."

"Of course not," Phil interjects. "But the Captain has a point. If nothing else, we need to know if this is something Loki can take away as easily as he brought it out. Doing that at the wrong moment could be devastating." Clint frowns and looks away but nods, knowing all too well that Phil has a point. "In the meantime," Phil goes on, "we need to establish a new baseline for you."

Clint looks up at that, some of the sparkle returning to his eyes. "Solo missions?"

Phil nods. "Just you and me."

Clint grins. The sheer pleasure in his expression makes Phil's heart turn over. They've always been good together, but maybe, just maybe, there's room to be even better.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

He would never, ever admit it, but Phil has always enjoyed solo missions with Clint, right from the very beginning. 

Before the Avengers, handling him as a part of a team, any team--except Natasha--was difficult. Senior agents judged him on his atypical background. Whatever credit he earned with them by demonstrating why he'd been recruited was spent when he flouted the protocols those agents had had hammered into them. Junior agents were either intimidated by him or wanted to emulate him, and attempts in the latter direction never went well. Clint was more than capable of working with a team, but the interpersonal politics he stirred up just by being there were challenging on a level that had Fury regularly using his presence as a final exam for agents in line for promotion. If you couldn’t work with Barton, you stayed where you were in the pecking order until you could.

Solo missions were different. Flouting protocol didn't mean Clint didn't _know_ it. He knew it inside and out, and he knew exactly when it was necessary and when it wasn't. People thought that Phil was a by the book kind of guy, and that Clint must drive him nuts. Clint understood from the beginning that Phil was an _efficiency_ kind of guy; it wasn't his fault that most people needed clear guidelines and strong routines to be efficient. The fact that Clint didn't need those things made missions with him...well...entertaining.

On this mission Clint's nest is half a mile from his target, which means he's using a rifle instead of his bow, but it also means that he doesn't need to be quiet, so he isn't. 

"Do I have to take this shot today?" Clint asks, his voice playful, so Phil knows he's not serious.

"Is there a problem?" Phil is in a van much closer to the target, monitoring the local environment. It's not crowded, but there is irregular foot traffic. Thirty seconds until the target is in position.

"He's wearing a Twilight t-shirt, sir. I'm embarrassed for him. The bad ass drug dealer is going to die in a t-shirt dedicated to a bunch of books written for teenage girls, and they’re not even good books." 

Phil smiles. Fifteen seconds to position. "He's a drug dealer, Barton, I think he forfeited his right to your consideration."

"Well, on the upside, when his buddies find him dressed like that, it'll do as much damage to his network as finding him here." The target steps into position. "I have the shot."

Phil double-checks everything. It only takes a moment; he's practiced. "Take it."

There's no sound. The man in the Twilight shirt just stops, twitches, and collapses. Phil checks the environment again. "We're clear."

"Sweet." There's a long pause, which is odd; Clint is usually as talkative while he cleans up his nest as he is while he waits for the shot. "Hey, could I come down there and take a look at him?"

Phil's eyebrows go up. "Do you need to?" Clint's never asked for this before. He likes working at a distance.

"Nah. But I'd kind of like to."

They're still clear, but someone will be along before too long. Phil considers. "You can come to my position."

Clint climbs into the van with him a few minutes later. He stares at the monitors and studies the crumpled body for a while. It's not guilt, Phil knows; Clint has never had a problem changing the parameters of an op when the objectives rub him the wrong way. See Natasha.

Eventually he sits back with a satisfied sigh and turns to grin fiercely at Phil. "Good hunt," he says, and Phil remembers from the reading he did last week that when a trained hawk takes down its prey, you can't just take the kill away. It won't let you; you have to trade for it. Clint isn't that far gone, but there's a definite note of possessiveness.

"Very good," is all Phil says aloud. He starts the van, looks at Clint, but he's leaning back in his seat now, eyes closed. They drive away.

They're almost back to base when Clint sighs and opens his eyes. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to do this sort of op with anyone but you from now on, sir," he says quietly, reluctant but resolute.

Phil glances away from the road to look at him. Clint is staring out the side window. "The Avengers--"

"Not a problem. That's--Those missions are different. They're not hunting. But this--I don't think I can hunt with other people."

"Except me," Phil says carefully.

Clint nods. "You're good."

Phil doesn't say anything else, but the first thing he does when he gets back to the Helicarrier is look up more information on the hunting behavior of Red Tailed Hawks. His reading last week had been mostly focused on potential physical issues; he'd made a cursory pass of behavioral traits so that he could make a good guess at Clint’s reactions, but Clint has been dealing with it so well Phil hadn't studied much detail. It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for, or to follow the thread of information. He has to sit back and take a few deep breaths before he can make himself stand and go to Clint's quarters.

Clint is pacing, head bowed, when Phil steps inside without bothering to knock. His head comes up, eyes alight. "That was fast." He doesn't stop pacing. He’s agitated and worried. The feathers in his hair are starting to ruffle noticeably.

Phil steps in front of him, clamps one hand down on the back of Clint's neck, and covers his eyes with the other. Clint goes rigid for an instant before the twitchiness drains right out of him. "Oh," he says softly. Phil relaxes a little, too. He hadn't been sure that would work. Clint’s part hawk now, but it doesn’t mean all the tricks will work.

"Red Tailed Hawks hunt with their mates," Phil says softly. Clint doesn't move. "And they mate for life." Clint tenses, nods. Slowly, Phil uncovers his eyes, moving his hands to Clint's shoulders instead. "But we haven't...mated."

Clint huffs out a laugh and ducks his head. "Apparently that's where human emotions and hawk instincts meet up and get complicated."

"Explain," Phil says. He can't believe how steady his voice is, because his heart is pounding. Clint's agitation has ruffled his feathers, but he doesn't look silly. He looks wild, feathers in every direction in his hair. His hands come up and wrap around Phil's wrists, the rough texture of his palms sending a jolt through Phil. He meets Phil's eyes and his gaze is penetrating, but that's not _new_. Seeing Clint like this, the hawk traits aren't something tacked on. It's more like a mask has been stripped off.

"The act of mating is the act of choosing for a hawk," Clint says. "It's the choosing that's the important part, and humans do that in their heads. I made my choice a long time ago." He grimaces and looks away. "Even though I kept screwing around after, that didn't change."

"And you chose me?" Phil can't help the skepticism. He doesn't have self-esteem issues, but he's a realistic man. He's a workaholic, his concept of intimacy is maybe telling someone 'That’s Level 2 classified,' and the word most commonly used to describe his features is 'pleasant.' He's not anybody's first choice.

Clint looks up. "I've seen you hunt," he says, voice low and hoarse.

Except a man who judges potential partners on how fast they can take down an enemy target. Phil wants to laugh; he really should have known better.

His amusement must show on his face because Clint suddenly smiles and surges forward. He catches Phil's mouth with his own and Phil groans and kisses back, hard and hungry. Clint's mouth opens quickly, deepening the kiss, tongues tangling. He's still holding Phil's wrists, so Phil arches his body instead of reaching out. Their hips meet and God, Clint is already hard.

Clint finally lets go of Phil's wrists, wrapping his arms around him instead. Phil follows his example. They press close, mouths still sealed together, and Phil rocks into Clint. Clint breaks the kiss and tilts his head back; a needy, keening noise escapes him as his hips jerk into Phil. The line of his neck draws Phil in, inviting him to taste the skin there. A shiver runs through Clint when Phil brings a hint of teeth to bear. Phil lets one hand move down to cup the swell of Clint's ass and Clint _moans_ , loud and unrestrained. He gets even louder when Phil gives him a squeeze.

Phil stares. An urgent, possessive need slams into him. The words slip out unconsidered. "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Yes," Clint gasps, grinding against Phil.

There's a bed on one side of Clint's quarters and a desk on the other. Phil knows what he's supposed to do, what maybe he should do, but he doesn't _want_ to lay Clint out on crisp bed sheets, and he's got the sneaking suspicion that being off his feet wouldn't be to Clint's taste, either. Not this time, anyway. Instead Phil backs him over to the desk, turns him around, and pushes him down with a hand between his shoulder blades.

Clint lands on his elbows and pushes his ass back towards Phil. "Pants," he says.

"I have done this before," Phil reaches around Clint, fingers finding the button and zip of his cargo pants easily.

Clint turns to look over his shoulder. "No," he says sharply. "You haven't."

Phil pauses, but Clint makes an irritated noise, so he goes back to undoing his fly. No teasing about past experience, then. "No," he says aloud. "Nothing quite like this." Not knowing there would never be anyone else. Not with his mate.

Clint's skin is hot under his hands, and when Phil pushes pants and boxers together down to Clint's knees, running a hand over the firm curve of his ass on the way, Clint groans. "Now," he says. "Phil, _please_."

"Jesus," Phil mutters, fumbling quickly with his own zip. He shuts his eyes for a moment at the feel of his own hand on his cock, gives it a couple of good strokes before he can stop himself. When he opens his eyes Clint is leaning on one elbow and fishing a bottle out of the desk drawer with his free hand. "You keep hand lotion in your desk?"

"Yes, and you're awfully glad of it now, aren't you?" Clint waggles the bottle, and Phil takes it. Clint arches his back as he folds his arm on the desk again and Phil catches his breath. 

Clint is even hotter inside than out. He takes in Phil's finger with a grunt and an eager push of his hips and Phil means to--not to go slow, but at least to be thorough. But Clint is hot and tight and the way he works his hips back onto Phil's hand is practically obscene. He pushes in a second finger too soon, and Clint is just gasping, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," over and over again as Phil twists his fingers, stretches him out. Phil has to stop and grip the base of his cock for a second, closing his eyes and struggling for control.

Closing his eyes doesn't block out Clint's voice. "Why're you stopping?" he demands.

"I don't want to come yet," Phil manages. He opens his eyes to find Clint watching him over his shoulder, bronze-ringed eyes bright with hunger. 

"Not until you've fucked me good," Clint agrees, and God, that is not helping.

"Fuck," Phil swears, grabbing the bottle of oil off the desk and pouring it into his hands. "You better be ready." He slicks his cock, oil going everywhere, and hopes that the lube will make up for the quick prep.

"I'm good, I'm good," Clint assures him, dropping his head again.

Phil looks down at his cock in his hand, at the curve of Clint's ass, and realizes: no condom. Fuck. But fuck it, Clint has undergone the most extensive medical testing known to man for the past week, on top of his quarterly physical, and Phil hasn't had a sex partner in three years, and Clint will _kill_ him if he stops now. He goes for it.

Clint opens up stunningly easily, considering the hasty prep, and Phil groans and can't stop himself from just sliding all the way in on one long stroke. "Jesus," Phil gasps, his hips pressed to Clint's ass. He leans down and kisses the nape of Clint's neck just above the collar of his t-shirt. "You are fantastic."

"I get better," Clint says, and rolls his hips.

Swearing again, Phil braces his hands on the edge of the desk by Clint's elbows, because if he wants it that badly, Phil is going to give it to him in spades. His first thrust is fast; Clint rocks forward under the force of it. He also hisses, " _Yes_ ," low and hot, and plants his feet, and that's all the permission Phil needs to keep going, slamming into him hard enough that the sound of their bodies meeting almost drowns out their voices.

It's not a pace either of them can keep up for long, but this was never going to last, not with Clint bent over and taking every thrust with gasps of, "More, yes, Phil," and, slipping out helplessly, " _Take me._ " Phil doesn't have the breath for words, his sounds are raw, forced out of him every time he plunges his cock into Clint's body, hot and slick and so eager for him.

Clint comes suddenly, without warning, just gasps sharply, back bowing, and spills onto the floor. Heedless of the mess, Phil puts his head down and snaps his hips into a few last, ragged thrusts, and moans long and low when his orgasm finally tears out of him and his cock pulses into Clint's ass.

They're both still mostly dressed, but their clothes are soaked with sweat now. They barely manage to strip out of them--Clint drops his t-shirt onto the mess on the floor--and stumble over to the bed, where they collapse, lying on their sides and half leaning on each other because the single bunk isn't meant for two people. 

Eventually their breathing calms and they focus on each other again. Clint starts laughing, and Phil can't help but join him. His body is already aching. God knows how Clint feels, but Phil can't bring himself to regret it. Their laughter winds down, but Clint's eyes are still sparkling, bronze and blue, and the feathers in his hair are sticking up all over the place. Phil raises a hand and starts smoothing them back into place. "If this hadn't happened," he asks, "would you ever have said anything about how you felt?"

"No," Clint says. The smile has eased into a relaxed warmth. He’s not worried that Phil will misunderstand and think that they shouldn’t have done this, or that Clint regrets it. They know each other better than that.

Phil keeps arranging the feathers. "Why not?" This is who Clint is now; it doesn't matter if he didn't feel enough, before, to make having a relationship with Phil worth the trouble their jobs will make it. It doesn't matter, and if they find Loki and he undoes this like Fury and Rogers and the doctors still want it undone, well, they've already changed the relationship, haven't they?

"I didn't think I--" Clint stops. "I know where I came from, and where you came from, and it didn't seem like we could ever end up in the same place."

"Clint," Phil says carefully, "we've been in the same place for years now."

Clint laughs softly. "I get that _now_. But history loomed a lot larger in my head, before. It was like it cast a shadow on everything. Now I look around and...it's still there, I still see it, but I can also see just how far off it is."

"You're living in the moment."

"Not 100%," Clint says. "But...more, yeah."

Phil is quiet while he finishes smoothing out Clint's feathers. Clint leans into the touch, turning his head occasionally to move Phil’s fingers to a particular spot, humming contentedly now and then. Phil slides his hand down and rests it on the nape of Clint's neck when he's done. "We really do have to find Loki."

Clint sighs. "I know."

Phil takes a lot of care to not make promises he can't keep. It doesn't always work out, but he tries. "If we do," he says quietly, "we'll still be in the same place, after."

"If we're not--"

"We might have to work for it," Phil interrupts, firmly, "but we'll get there."

Clint smiles slowly, a soft, warm smile that he turns and hides in the curve of Phil's neck. Phil can still feel it against his skin. "Okay," Clint says.


	6. Chapter 6

As it turns out, they don't find Loki, he finds them.

There are nine of them at dinner--the Avengers, Pepper, Phil, and Jane--and six of them are pretty recognizable, so the restaurant gave them the private room just off the main dining area. It's not quite what they wanted, which was to go out like normal people for once, but it's close enough. Up until Loki strolls through the arch, anyway.

They're all out of their seats in an instant. Loki doesn't move, just tuts disapprovingly. "So ungracious," he says. "I hoped for a warmer welcome, given that I've heard you're interested in having a _chat_." His eyes skim over the group and land on Clint. "My, my, my," he murmurs. "This might actually be worth a chat."

Clint is rigid next to Phil, his knuckles white around the back of the chair. He stares back at Loki, and Phil can _see_ Clint wishing he were armed, wishing he'd brought a handgun at least, but they were trying to just have dinner. Phil has his sidearm, but he doesn't dare hand it over, lest he draw Loki's attention.

"Brother," Thor says. Loki's mouth twists at the word, but he doesn't argue this time. "Indeed, we have questions."

Loki's gaze turns from Clint to Thor and he lifts his chin and smiles. "And you come petitioning for answers. How very pleasing." Tony starts to speak, but is cut off with a yelp; Phil resolves to thank Pepper. Loki's eyes flicker over to them briefly, then return to Clint. "Let me have a look at you, then."

"You can see me just fine from here," Clint says evenly.

Loki's eyes narrow. "Now, now," he drawls, "you don't want me make a _scene_ , do you?" He tilts his head back toward the restaurant proper.

The tension in the air makes the hair on the back of Phil's neck prickle. 

"Clint," Steve says quietly, but he's using his command tone.

After a moment, Clint steps around Jane, then Thor. He steps up to Loki, just a hair too close. "Close enough?" he asks, staring the demi-god in the eye.

Far, far too close. Phil forces himself to swallow.

Loki just smiles, doesn't step back. "It looks like I was right," his voice lilts. "You truly are no more than a beast, so base you can't even claw back what little advancement you'd made." He laughs. "And here I thought Banner was the feral one." He turns away from Clint for a moment, looking at Bruce, who simply looks back. Loki scowls. "Does it not please you that it was not _you_ that was reduced to a bundle of instincts, hunting and mating and nothing more?"

"That is enough," Thor says. "You have had your amusement; undo what you have done."

"Undo it?" Loki's eye widen comically. "Why would I do such a thing? I've seen one of the Avengers brought low by mere mischief!"

Clint chuckles. Phil's eyes snap back to him from Loki and he's startled to see Clint smirking. "Mischief can backfire on you," he says.

Loki frowns. "Oh?"

Clint leans forward, right into Loki's face, and says, "I see better now."

His hand shoots out to the side, fist closing on nothing and he _yanks_. A second Loki stumbles out of empty space, robes caught up in Clint's fist. Loki flushes bright red as his illusion flickers out. "I can take away what I gave you as easily as I bestowed it," he spits, and slams his open palm onto Clint's chest. Light flares.

Phil is two steps closer, his gun out, by the time he realizes that nothing has happened. 

Confusion clouds Loki's features and Clint starts laughing, full out. He pushes Loki away, releasing his robes. "You didn't give me anything I didn't already have inside me."

"You will pay for this," Loki hisses. With a gesture, he vanishes. 

Truly vanishes, Phil judges, based on the series of sharp looks Clint casts about before relaxing. He turns and looks at Phil, eyes still bright from the hunt, feathers still sleek in his hair, scaled hands flexing unconsciously by his sides. Phil holsters his weapon and takes the last couple of steps into Clint's space. "We have quite the hunt ahead of us," he says. He doesn't kiss Clint, not here, but meeting his eyes, feeling the way Clint's body curves toward him, feels almost as good.

"Clint," Natasha says. Clint looks across the dinner table at her. "Are you okay?"

Phil is a little surprised she's asked--they aren't exactly in private--but looking around he can see open concern on everyone present. 

Clint cricks his neck sharply and rolls his shoulders. "I am now," he says, tossing her a smile.

"But," Jane says hesitantly, "you're still...feathery."

Bruce replies before Clint can. "That's why he's okay." He tilted his head a little, gestures in Clint's direction. "You want this."

"I get that that is weird to you," Clint says, "but I swear to you that I'm--" he breaks off, casts about for the words. "I'm me," he says at last. "Everything that I am is right here, now, I'm focused, and it's _right_."

While the others work through that, Phil reaches out and pulls Clint into a kiss, after all. Because _everything that I am_ , and the only people in this room are their friends. He kisses Clint, and Clint puts his hands on Phil's hips and pulls him close and kisses back deep. 

When they part, the room is silent.

"Okay, that's new," Tony says. "That is new, right? I didn't miss something?"

"That depends entirely on what you mean by 'new,'" Natasha says, the corner of her mouth curving up.

"You do realize you can't say that and not explain, right?"

The conversation picks up around them, and Phil has to smile, because Clint's eyes are sparkling, and he's _here_. And so is Phil.

~!~


End file.
